


i know it's over

by writingdice



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Body Horror, Creepy Americana, Depression, Gore, M/M, Prostitution, Rape, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 04:54:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16885992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingdice/pseuds/writingdice
Summary: Musings and life of a lonely drifter and the monsters he had to fight on his own. Creepy americana!Stanley.





	i know it's over

Their hands intertwined. Shallow breaths in the quiet, cold room. They kiss once, twice. Stan smiles and laughs quietly as Ford snuggles closer to him.

Ford’s hands leave his and roam over his body, making sure to massage any tense muscle while he kisses his jaw and neck. His hands are always soft, always yielding. Always loving, worshipping, wanting to feel him and make him feel good.

Stan takes Ford’s right hand and kisses it, hoping that the message he tries to convey reaches him. He feels Ford’s smile against his neck. He smiles too, but he can’t help but feel a little sad at the thought that maybe this is as happy as they would ever be with each other.

As they kiss again he wishes that they could stay like this forever.

Ford talks softly about aliens and UFO sightings, about Big Foot and the Jersey Devil. Stan jokes around about them going on a monster hunt and they entertain the idea in teenage daydreams and unlikely plans that will be forgotten as soon as other things came around.

But in that moment they are in their room and it’s snowing outside, in that moment they are still young, still full of hopes. They are still together and the future is far ahead.

* * *

They promise him warmth and money. They spin around their lies and whisper sweet nothing on his ears. He knows the gist, he knows how it works. He charms them and promises them a good time, they take him to their place or to a cheap hotel.

Their acting goes away when they are alone with him. Their hands are always rough, always demanding. Always pulling, pushing, wanting to take and take until there’s nothing left.

Stan’s good at his job, makes them scream and moan, they always come back for more. It’s not a bad business, sometimes he ended up hurt and it wasn’t always safe and nice but that’s just how life is. At least he made enough money to have something to eat and fill the tank of his car.

He always takes a shower after working all night, even if it’s with a rag and a bucket full of cold water. He knows there’s no shame in working at what he does, but he still feels it and can’t look at himself in the mirror afterwards. He’s doing what he can to survive. He scrubs and hopes the water can wash away the feeling of their hands.

* * *

He dreams of hands all over his body. 

Hands grow out of his skin and try to claw his eyes out, hands grow out of the floor and drag him down. Hands scratch at his stomach and spill his intestines out, hands silence him as he tries to scream for help.

They bury him alive.

* * *

Stan’s only staying in this city for the night. His car’s parked behind him and his clothes are in a careless heap near it, sand crunchs under his feet as he enters the cold water that numbs out how disgusting he feels.

Tonight had been different, tonight he hadn’t wanted to work. He obviously needed to because working meant money and money meant another day of survival. Tonight every thrust and filthy moan in his ear just made him want to stop, but he couldn’t tell them to.

Under the freezing water, holding his breath. Under the freezing water, in the quiet of the night, where his screams cannot be heard.

Stan’s shaking as icy wind breaks goosebumps on his wet skin. He dries as best as he can before putting on his clothes. Inside the car is not warmer, but it’s better than nothing. As his eyes are closing that night, he swears he can hear Ford talking excitedly about UFOs and cryptids.

* * *

Stanley walks down on empty streets in the middle of the night, keeping his eyes focused on ahead and trying not to look on the alleys where he knows there are people like him working. It’s not like he needs to see them giving head or something else.

As he passes by one he hears a sick snap and crunch, like bones breaking and flesh being torn. He hears the heavy breathing and pleads of a man, begging him for help.

Stan keeps walking and doesn’t look back.

* * *

He dreams of hands all over his body.

Hands crush his skull and the pressure feels real, he screams in agony and trashes his head around in hopes that he’ll be able to get them off him. Hands grip his jaw and push their way inside his mouth, he can feel them crawling down his throat.

Stan starts to cry.

His father stands in silence watching him suffer, as disapproving and emotionless as always.

Ford is standing beside him. Disgust and hatred in his face as he watches him writhe on the floor.

Hands continue to crush his skull until the pressure becomes too much and…

he

breaks.

* * *

Stan’s driving in a lone highway at night. His car’s headlights are not enough to put him at ease from the darkness that surrounds him.

He feels a thousand eyes focusing on him, he hears a thousand teeth clicking.

He looks for the worn down neon light of a cheap motel, he prays for a small town to come into view.

But that night Stan was alone, driving in an endless highway with nothing but the feeling of a thousand hungry creatures watching him.

Morning comes and he takes out a map from his glove compartment. As hard as he tried, he wasn’t able to find the highway he had just left. He drives off and never goes back that way.

* * *

Sometimes when he’s working and his customers are gentle, he can fool himself to think that they may be in love him. When they are rough and leave him aching he tells himself that it’s a punishment, that he deserves what he gets. And he believes his own lies.

He sits on the hood of his car with a prescription for anti-depressants on his left hand and a lit cigarette on his right. Stan crumples it and continues smoking as fat tears roll down his cheeks. It’s not like he can afford them anyway.

As he finishes his cigarette and fishes around his pockets for another one, he wonders where Ford is and what he may be doing with his life. Night comes and he looks up to the sky in the search of UFOs.

* * *

He dreams of hands choking him. Six fingered hands hold him down and cut off his air.

Stanford looms above him with glowing yellow eyes and a maniac smile on his face. Stanford tells him how pathetic and disgusting he is over and over again with a shrill laugh.

Stanley can’t breathe, he’s looking up at the twisted face of his twin… and he feels… nothing.


End file.
